Hide, Horn, Fish, and Fowl: Texas Hunting and Fishing Lore

THE JETTY

Fishing on the jetty 7978-ch03.pdf 10/6/11 8:16 AM Page 202 THE JETTY by Randy Cameron  Port Aransas, that island town off the Texas mainland, is, of course, surrounded by water. But even that is not enough for some people. They want to go farther than the edge. They want to go to the very end. And to those who do, the jetty is their route, a mile-long, twelve-foot wide stretch of old cement first constructed in 1940, and more recently widened, patched, and finally strengthened with Volkswagen-sized blocks of Texas granite. The whole scene is a marvelous mixture of jumbled and jagged rocks, moss, kelp, wheeling gulls, and sea spray. And fishermen. What an eclectic lot the jetty lures out upon it—especially, I think, on a mild December day of streaky, high cirrus clouds and little wind such as this. We see people of all ages and genders, some serious anglers, some semi-so, and some not at all. Those are the ones content to watch and listen to the sea, catch some sun, check their bird books and just be a part of the relaxed, communal scene. Still others, like myself, and my wife and sevenyear -old son, try a little bit of it all. The array of tackle scattered across the jetty is truly vast— formidable in some cases, very simple in others. Suffice it to say, on this Sunday before Christmas with the temperature in the 70s, the jetty is littered with rods, reels, nets, gaffs, buckets, tackle boxes, coolers, and discarded jackets. We start out on the walk with two rods and a very small tackle box. Fishing, for those who know what they are doing, is very good. We see several good fish taken in the first 100 yards of our walk before we stop and turn to the Gulf side, our back to the channel, and fish for a while ourselves. The tide and breeze have dictated that the Gulf side is the calm side today. Some fifteen feet behind us across the rocks is the milewide ship channel, choppy this afternoon with the bulging wakes 203 7978-ch03.pdf 10/6/11 8:16 AM Page 203 of passing boats of all sizes and styles. After a while, Will and I leave Mary casting a Spec-Rig (a lure set-up we did not know existed until yesterday) and explore farther out on the jetty. Free of his mother’s hand and admonishments, Will bounds goat-like from rock to rock, sailing over the gaps. We come upon an older man, fast to what is obviously a good fish. After a strong and determined fight, the prize is netted deftly by a neighboring lady angler. “You are having a ball,” she says as she fumbles in the net to retrieve a six- or eight-pound fish. “Man,” he says grinning broadly, “this is the best fishing I’ve had in years.” Back at our home, still in Texas but way up by the Red River, fishing is often poor when the weather is as glorious as it is today. But the jetty fish seem to like the conditions just as much as the anglers. The bait fishermen are catching large Sheephead from the dark green waters, and other good-sized species that I can’t identify. On we go, farther out still, easing along among the gulls and an occasional Great Blue Heron. A giant freighter, The Florida Express, slices through the channel towards the yawning gulf. Will and I stand silently and watch, feeling the ancient, magnetic pull of the romance and adventure of the open seas. We turn to watch a Hispanic teen confidently—no, arrogantly —wear down a big fish on a ridiculously light rod and pushbutton reel, a cigarette fixed firmly in one corner of his mouth. After several minutes, he lands a fish of some ten pounds without benefit of net or gaff. Farther out still, Will strikes up a conversation with an old timer who has just landed a nice Sheephead. He shows Will his bait, Fiddler Crabs swarming in a plastic jug. He tells us his wife catches them for him. “I can’t hardly see them anymore,” he says. Out almost to the end, a man heads past us for the mainland with a handsome pair of speckled trout. An L. L. Bean-attired...